


Where the Shadows Are

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dubious Consent, Romance, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25689160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by ACGil-galad's death and Isildur's betrayal prove to be the death of Elrond's heart. Alliances built upon secrets never ring true - pun very much intended.Prequel to the "Folly of Starlight" series.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Least Expected





	Where the Shadows Are

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Rating: R for mentions of elvish smutsing (some non-consensual)  
> Archive: yes  
> Disclaimer: No profit, no disrespect, no claim of ownership.  
> Where film and book canon clash, I went with the film. There appear to be two vastly different stories about the date of Rivendell's founding in Tolkien canon. I have chosen to take the later date, as it makes more sense, IMHO. Background info is taken from the books and other materials. See the notes at the end of the completed story for more information.
> 
> Thanks to Faela Greenleaf for the swift beta read. Any remaining errors are mine alone.
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Sources:
> 
> Robert Foster (1978) The Complete Guide to Middle Earth (NY: Ballantine Books)
> 
> J.E.A. Tyler (1976) The Tolkien Companion (NY: Gramercy Books)
> 
> Michael Martinez (October 8, 1999) Would Sandra Bullock be a good Mrs. Isildur? (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/26794)
> 
> Michael Martinez (March 31, 2000) Speaking of Legolas... (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/36517)
> 
> Michael Martinez (August 4, 2000) Gil-galad was an Elven-king... (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/44954)
> 
> Michael Martinez (January 19, 2001) Shhh! It's a secret ring! (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/58090)
> 
> Michael Martinez (May 19, 2001) A History of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, Part 1 (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/69542)
> 
> Michael Martinez (May 25, 2001) A History of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, Part 2 (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/69544)
> 
> Michael Martinez (June 1, 2001) A History of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, Part 3 (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/70973)
> 
> The Sindarin Dictionary Project (http://www.geocities.com/almacq.geo/sindar/)

"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen, his shining helm afar was seen;  
the countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
for into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are."

  * The Fall of Gil-galad



* * *

Part 1:

[Beginning of Autumn, The Year 3431 of the Second Age of Middle-Earth, the Sanctuary of Imladris, known in the Common Tongue as Rivendell]

Stormy gray eyes surveyed the gilded green forests which cocooned the airy stone built structures of Imladris. A flurry of activity swept through the trees, as the collected armies of Gil-galad and Elendil set up a veritable tent city among the leaves. By nightfall, the entire realm between the mighty Bruinen and the lesser Mitheithel would become the barracks of the core of the greatest army of Man and Elf assembled in this age. <<It will not be enough, not to break the power of Sauron.>> Elrond stared, grim-faced, over his land. For over two thousand years, it had been a sanctuary for both races, founded during the last war between the forces of Mordor and the Eldar.

Closing his eyes, Elrond tightly gripped the cold stone sill which marked the bottom of the expansive window. <<And so Celebrimbor's folly haunts us still. What should never have been, still is, and now we must, all of us, pay, once more.>> He could still see the icy desperation of the master Elven-smith's dead eyes staring up at him, pleading even in death for forgiveness. Too late had Gil-galad dispatched Elrond from Lindon to protect Eregion from Sauron's attack. All that could be done was for Elrond to gather the meager remnants of elves and men who had worked Celebrimbor's forges as best he could and retreat east, finding a defensible location in the deeply cleft valley in which he now stood. Other Eldar had joined him in their own desperation, among them the great Gildor and Glorfindel, and together they had successfully held out until the end of the battle a lengthy three years hence.

The mighty Gil-galad had protected Lindon as best he could, finally calling to the West, to the Men of Numenor to sail to the aid of Middle-Earth. Together, the forces of Eldar and Noble Man had stood together as one, and driven the common enemy south. The King of Numenor and his councilors had never known the true reason for the war, having been led to believe it was an unprovoked attack on the peaceable peoples of the North. <<Would they have come, have shed their blood so willingly, if they had been told the truth? Would they have found the cause so just had they been told of the Rings of Power which the Elven-smiths had crafted in their blindness and easily manipulated pride?>>

"No. Nor would I have expected them to," Elrond mumbled under his breath. If they had only known of the depth of Sauron's treachery, of his ability to appear as fair as the sun, his tongue speak as soft as the caressing wind, his counsel as soothing as the gentle lapping of the waves at the edge of the sea's shore. If they had only known, Numenor would never have fallen.

With each passing step along the torturous path of memory, Elrond's heart fell deeper into despair and guilt. Not for his own actions -- or inactions -- so much as for as those of his race, in general. Generations after he had been driven back to the South, Sauron had been brought to Numenor in chains by Ar-Pharazon, only to use his honey sweet tongue to twist the King's prideful mind to evil. "Attack Valinor -- take what is rightly yours. Why should the Elves, alone, have the Gift of Immortality?"

The sorrowful result of that vain campaign was chronicled in mournful songs now heard across Middle-Earth.

Not falling under Sauron's sway, faithful to the true spirit of Man, Elendil and his sons had escaped that doomed island in the nick of time, sailing east in hopes of finding sanctuary and tranquility. Gil-galad had welcomed the survivors from Numenor's fall to Middle-Earth, never letting them know that he was, in fact, partially responsible for the destruction of their homeland, in a circuitous chain of blame. In friendship, and guilt, he had built for them seaside towers, helped them found the great kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor, which Elendil and his sons ruled in peace, for a time.

It was a peace which did not endure, _could_ not endure. Sauron had survived the fall of Numenor, partially with the help of the Ring of Power, but had forever lost his fair form. The hideous Black Lord of Mordor had turned his hateful eye upon those he blamed for his reduced state -- the Dunedain, his unsuspecting neighbors. With a fury born of bottomless rage and vengeance, Sauron and his forces attacked Gondor, wishing to either ensnare the race of man or wipe it from the face of Middle-earth.

Isildur and his family had hurriedly escaped north, to join forces with his father, and they hoped their Elvish allies, in Arnor, while his brother, Anarion, held the line at Osgiliath. Elendil meant to collect the debt owed to his people from the Eldar to stand by their side and fight, just as the Men of Numenor had, those many centuries ago. For his part, Gil-galad had not required significant effort to convince. All too aware of the source of Sauron's continuing power, he suggested they must march to Mordor, itself, throw down the black walls, and destroy the Dark Lord utterly.

<<Destroy the Ring, destroy the Darkness.>> Elendil was completely unaware of that portion of the plan -- for now. As with all lies, this could not remain hidden forever. Lies fester and grow, spreading their roots in the fertile darkness of places unseen, only to break free into the light when least expected, or wished upon. It was finally time for this painful shame to be exposed.

Gil-galad had assembled his forces, marched east to meet up with Elendil and Isildur's forces at Amon Sur, and from there continued to the sanctuary of Imladris. Here, under the cloak of secrecy, what remained of the Elven-smiths of old could now forge armor and weapons for both armies, further allies could be assembled, strategies could be plotted. That was the plan. First, the alliance would have to survive its first true test -- the revelation of past infidelities.

Elrond Half-Elven sped a swift, mental prayer to the Valar that the race of Man had a strength it seemed the Eldar had not -- the strength to face the truth. Perhaps it had been his brother who had made the wiser choice in selecting to accept the Gift of Men.

The jarring jingle of armor stirred Elrond from his deep thoughts. Turning toward the staircase at the far end of the terrace, his gaze was rewarded with a long pined for sight he had only been able to savor in fleeting dreams. Gil-galad the Radiant, his King, his confidant, the song of his heart and the only hope of salvation in what awaited them all. "My lord, I hope all my preparations are to your satisfaction," Elrond respectfully offered, lowering his eyes briefly to the cool polished stone floor in deference.

The familiar musical rumble of baritone laughter sent sparks of joy through the very fiber of Elrond's being. "When have you ever disappointed me, Nin-iaun, except when you spend far too much time absent from my bed?" The mighty jewel-crested silver helmet loosely cradled in one arm fell to the hard floor with a strangely melodic ring, swiftly followed by the flawless white spear borne in the other hand. After only the slightest hint of pause, to soak in the much missed elegance of his beloved Peredhil, Gil-galad the mighty became as a lust-eagered princeling, sweeping Elrond into his embrace with armor encircled arms. Although the true battle was to yet come, now was the time to collect his prize, the one he wished for above all others.

The countless miles and abyss of years which had separated the High King of the Noldor from his Chosen were swept away in the flash of an instant. Words were unnecessary, superfluous, and hopelessly inadequate to express the depths of their hearts. Fingers and mouths were far better communicators, and were allowed free rein to reacquaint the elf lords with the nuances of each other's flesh. Before long, the lovers found themselves skin to skin, intertwined in the limbs of the other and the whisper-soft sheets of Elrond's bed.

Even after a human lifetime apart, the lovers had not forgotten a single detail of the other's flesh, all the secret, subtle ways of pleasuring each held most dear, most delicious. They took their fill of each other several times that night, never leaving the comfort of each other's embrace for more than the most fleeting of moments. The waking dreams of the Eldar were never as sweet as the hours of love made that night, and dawn found them both still most eager to commit to lingering memory every sensuous sensation the other could arouse within them.

It was with the most mournful reluctance that Gil-galad finally left the Lord of Imladris' sweet arms. "We have much to discuss before the representatives of the other peoples arrive," he flatly warned. He kept his back to Elrond's quizzical expression, helping himself to one of his lover's richly embroidered robes for a modest veiling of his body. Whether he was truly covering his flesh, or his fears, Gil-galad was uncertain, but it seemed for the best that he should, somehow, put some space between them while discussing matters of this gravity.

Increasingly confounded, Elrond shifted up to his knees, wrapping the sheets around his lower body. "As you wish. Of what do you wish to speak?"

With a deep, steeling breath, Gil-galad scooped from the floor a small leather purse from his discarded belt. His fingers betrayed him, trembling slightly as he untied the knot which held the priceless contents safely within. Removing the curious juxtaposition of heaven and hell from its package, Gil-galad finally turned to face the one he trusted unlike any other. "This," he huskily whispered, stretching out his open fisted hand toward Elrond.

Steel colored eyes widened incredulously as they recognized the shimmering gold-set sapphire laying ominously in the other's hand. "Vilya," Elrond whispered almost inaudibly, in awed shock. He raised his gaze to meet his lover's equally uneasy gray gaze. "Why have you brought it here?"

"The Three must be kept safe, regardless of the outcome of our battles in Mordor."

"Are they not already, with their keepers?" Elrond knew that Celebrimbor had had the foresight to give Nenya to the Lady Galadriel. She had kept it safe, and would continue to do so, of that he had no doubts. He also knew that Vilya and Narya had been in Gil-galad's care, out of sight, unused, in the relative safety of Lindon. "Why bring that here, why now?"

A smile of sorrow and hope, touched with the foresight of sometimes premonitory Elven dreams, graced the King's ageless face. "It is time I passed them to new caretakers," he calmly offered, slowly stepping closer to the bed and Elrond's doubt-riddled countenance. "I an weary of bearing the responsibility for them. Narya was given to Cirdan, before we marched from Lindon. He has secreted it away to a place of safety, until his return from Mordor." He paused at the edge of the bed, then knelt down before Rivendell's master. "The greatest of the three I give to you, in the hope that its mere presence here might strengthen Imladris." Gently he pulled one of Elrond's hands up from the sheets and brought it to his lips for a consecrating kiss. Turning the hand over, he carefully lay the ring into the center of its palm, then tenderly curled the fingers over the jewel to claim it as their own. "It is the most precious gift I have to give, yet the one which bears with it the most onerous responsibility. Who else could I entrust it to, but the one who holds claim over my very heart?"

Fear rippled through Elrond's body even as he first felt the quivering power of the ring thrum through him. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was most definitely there. Despite his own sizable reluctance to bear this burden, he knew better than to refuse Gil-galad's gift. In three thousand years, he had refused Gil-galad nothing -- could he do so now?

"I am honored, and I will not disappoint you." With a brushed kiss against his lord's brow, Elrond pushed aside the sheets with his free hand and found the floor with his feet. "I will keep it safe, for so long as you wish." While Gil-galad watched in relieved approval, Elrond deftly undid the secret locking mechanism of a small, mithril-made box set upon his dressing table.

"Never use it openly, never bear it upon your finger, so long as the One Ring exists," Gil-galad urgently warned.

Elrond carefully set the ring into the center of the box, then refastened the lock. "It will remain hidden, as you ask, until the end of Middle-earth, if need be."

<<I pray it will be truly yours to use long before that time, Nin-iaun.>> Feeling the liberation of the crushing weight of responsibility lifted from his soul, Gil-galad turned his heart to matters more dear to him. Sidling up behind Elrond, he snaked his arms around the naked waist and pulled their bodies into desperate contact. "Come back to bed, now. We still have many years to make up for, ere the plans for battle begin in earnest."

Part 2:

Weeks passed, as the soldiers of the Last Alliance rested, plotted, trained. Their captains were soundly pleased with their progress, yet all knew their forces to be still far too few in numbers to achieve their lofty goal. Elf and Man, although allies, clearly segregated, perhaps unconsciously, each keeping to his own. Their respective leaders watched with measured concern. It was temporarily permissible to allow the host to gather as it would, but when the battle was finally engaged, they must be as a whole. Just as the joint in a piece of armor provided a point of obvious attack for the enemy, if there were any seams in the Alliance, it would fail, utterly.

Elendil and Gil-galad spent much time together discussing battlefield strategies, most days with their seconds in command, Isildur and Elrond, in close counsel. As the days sped by, Elrond grew to greatly admire the King of the Dunedain. He imagined he could see a noble spark of his long lost brother, Elros, whose blood had been the very foundation of the House of the Dunedain. After so many generations, could Elrond truly call these men from the West his kin? Many a morning, the answer was a resounding 'yes', after nodding sagely at Elendil's latest brilliant stratagem.

As if to provide the perfect foil to his father's nobility, Isildur had soundly failed to impress the Lord of Rivendell. Darker than his father in both complexion and mood, the heir to the Dunedain throne was the very epitome of the vanity and pride which had led to the doom of Numenor. Was bravery or sheer rashness the source of his occasional fiery interruptions to his father's sage discussions of strategy? Wisdom seemed to be vacant from the younger man's logic, if his torturously curious battle plans could be called so. Elrond feared for the fate of Alliance if Elendil died before the battle was won.

Gil-galad's seemingly infinite respect for Elendil also swayed Elrond's positive opinion of the Dunedain King. Elrond had always found his King to have the most keen insight into the worth of an individual, be they Man or Elf. Had he not immediately seen through "Annatar's" ruse, and forbade him entrance to Lindon? <<If only Celebrimbor had seen the flaws of beings as keenly as he could spot flaws in metal.>> Yes, the matter of the Rings of Power was always on Elrond's mind. Partially because he was now the keeper of one, himself, but also because it clearly weighed on Gil-galad like the mass of Mount Doom, itself.

With each passing day, it was as transparent as the azure skies above Rivendell that Gil-galad rued the years of secrecy, of betrayal, far deeper than even he could admit. Each time Elendil lamented aloud over the apparently inscrutable source of Sauron's power, Elrond surreptitiously caught the agony thinly veiled behind his lover's steel eyes. Just as he willingly shared the guilt, the sin of omission, he was more than willing to share the pain which now consumed his Lord. Their only solace, besides the nights spend in each other's arms, was the fact that they could count on one hand the days until the truth would finally be revealed. Then the battle plans could be truly planned, openly.

Of course, assuming the Alliance withstood the revelations of the Eldar's true role in Sauron's power. Of that, Elrond was less than certain, although he dared not share his considerable uncertainties with Gil-galad. No matter, for the conflict and doubt in his lover's uneasy resting state gave voice to the possibly fate they both dreaded -- the utter failure of this fellowship, the most important Middle-earth had yet seen.

* * *

The morn of the Council finally arrived, the brilliant sunshine beaming down its consecrating rays upon the open air chambers where they met. As Lord of Imladris and the convener of this Council, Elrond sat in the central place of honor at its head, Gil-galad seated at his right and Elendil at Elrond's left. Both Kings had forsaken the garb of battle for more regal attire, and both now defined the very figure of nobility. The golden crown of Arnor adorned Elendil's brow, while the jewel adorned mithril diadem of the Noldor throne graced the dark flowing locks of the Elven king.

At the end of the circle of attendees, as close to his father as he could possibly perch, fumed Isildur and his three sons, all adorned in full battle armament sans helmets. It was perfectly apparent to Elrond's wary eye that the co-regent of Gondor felt personally slighted at not being awarded a place of honor, truly beside his father. <<His pride will be the undoing of us all.>>

Turning his attention to other members of the assembled conclave, Elrond nodded in respectful return as he caught the gaze of Durin of Moria, King of Khazad-dum, one in a long line to proudly bear that name. The dwarf sat between his eldest son and that of his sister, each resting their arms on the tops of their carefully crafted axes. If dwarves ever wore other than battle garb, Elrond had surely never seen evidence.

Bearded Cirdan of the Grey Havens, most powerful of the Sindarin lords, calmly graced the chair beside Durin's nephew, a most welcome buffer between the Lords of the Mines and the King of Greenwood the Great. To Cirdan's left fair-haired Oropher sat, accompanied by his son, Thranduil, haughtily surveying the assembled parties. Although most of his forest reign was populated by Wood-elves, not Eldar, still he considered himself the equal of any other Elf Lord present. Prideful and strong-willed, Oropher purposefully perused the faces of the other attendees.

Expressions of smug recognition of kindred Sindar were interspersed with the obvious sneering loathe of the Noldor and Dwarf kind. Elrond could almost hear the obvious headcount occurring in Oropher's mind. Besides Gil-galad, Galadriel and Gildor Inglorion alone represented the Exiles, while the rest of the Elven company -- including Elrond, himself -- felt the sea-haunted pulse of Sindar blood through their veins. The head count evidently completed, Elrond watched Oropher nod smugly to himself, obviously pleased with the odds, as it were. For his part, the Lord of Rivendell sighed under his breath, alarmed that some still bothered to recall the ancient slights and insults of the First Age. <<Are there not more pressing matters on which to fix our attention? Why must he cling to the dim past like a Dwarf to his gold?>> No matter the outcome of the battles ahead, Elrond sincerely doubted there would ever be any great love between Rivendell and Oropher's realm.

Amdir, King of Lorien silently occupied the chair next to Thranduil, his thoughts his own. Beside him, his frequent guest, the Lady Galadriel, sat, stonefaced, as still as a statue, her hands tightly clasped in the lap of her diaphanous dress. The chair to her left remained empty for another moment, until Celeborn emerged from the halls beyond, bowed slightly while uttering an apology for his tardiness, then claimed the seat beside his wife, thus completing the circle. Galadriel smiled sweetly at her mate, laying an elegant hand upon the one Celeborn had rested on the arm of his chair.

Elrond surreptitiously glanced at the Lady's hands. Although he did not expect to find Nenya openly borne upon her graceful fingers, nonetheless part of him was forced to look, anyway. With a loud clearing of his throat, Elrond officially opened the Council. Slowly rising to his feet, he clasped his hands loosely together, allowing them to hang freely before his robes. "Friends of old and new, allies all, you have been summoned here to answer a threat from the South. The Darkness has returned to Mordor, and is spreading its evil to all the free lands of Middle-earth. We can no longer hide within our own borders, believing that our security is assured by the strength of our own armies. This threat is greater than any of you understand, save those who were there in the beginning...." Casting a brief glance to his right, pained at the unfathomable depths of pain in Gil-galad's grim face, Elrond continued his introduction. "... the beginning of the Rings of Power."

A low jumbled murmur, of confusion both true and denial-tongued, broke out amongst the men and dwarves. Elrond watched as Gil-galad gripped the arms of his chair with bloodless fingers and pushed up to his feet. The lovers shared the briefest of strengthening gazes, then Elrond raised a hand to silence the rabble. "I will leave the details to my Lord Gil-galad. Pay careful mind to all he says, and may your hearts be as open as your ears." With that, Elrond slowly sank into his chair, and watched the long guarded walls of Eldar lies crumble before his very eyes.

Part 3:

The sun traveled several degrees further along its westward trek while Gil-galad relayed the events of old. Sauron's disguise as the beneficent "Annatar," Celebrimbor's part in crafting the rings, the true reason for the attack of Sauron upon the lands of the North, and Gil-galad's previous call to Numenor for assistance were all recounted in full. As Gil-galad recounted the true source of power which allowed Sauron to survive the fall of Numenor and his regrouping in Mordor, Elrond noted the increasing fury barely contained in Isildur's blazing expression. The story of the enthrallment of the nine kings of Man, now the undead Nazgul, did nothing to pacify Isildur's ever-building rage. Elrond silently wondered how long it could be contained.

In sharp contrast, Elendil stared down at the leaf dappled stone floor, nearly expressionless. His reaction, or rather lack thereof, convinced Elrond that Gil-galad had sagely broken his silence in private before the Council meeting. The apparent emotionless calm with which the King of the Dunedain was receiving the unsettling truth set some of Elrond's fears to rest. Hope flourished that the Alliance would survive its first true test.

As for Durin and his kin, they bristled at the very mention of the seven Dwarf rings, denying they had direct knowledge of this "Annatar" or his gifts. "There are no stories of dwarves being turned to wraiths from any trinket of gold. Dwarves cannot be _tamed_ like horses."

Gil-galad wasn't convinced of the dwarves' ignorance. "But they _can_ suffer from the taint of Sauron's black influence. Do you deny your people have suffered great pains over the past centuries?"

With a loud defiant snort, Durin looked away, nervously fingering the handle of his ax. "It is as my father told me -- never trust an Elf!"

"Do not count _us_ among the conspirators, Durin," Oropher fumed. "It is a typical Noldorin plot! Why am I not surprised. This is not the first time you have thought yourselves our superior. It is also not the first time your plans have gone awry, much to the grave suffering of others! _We_ were not a part of this!"

Elrond had heard quite enough of Oropher's holier than thou pronouncements, and despite his position as host, found he could not still his tongue. "I suppose one of Sindarin blood could not possibly be swayed into wrong action," he sarcastically spat.

"You would do well to mind your tongue, _Half_ -Elven," Oropher slowly drawled, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Your loyalties are always suspect. You have spent far too much time among the Exiles to remember from whence you came."

Durin interjected the one question none thus far had been brazen enough to press. "And what about the Elf rings? Are they not, also, instruments of evil?"

After a deep, guilt-riddled breath, Gil-galad then explained to the assembly how Cerebrimbor had made the Three by his own hand, how they avoided the curse of Sauron's taint, and remained free of blemish, even now. The bubbling jealousy of the other races threatened to explode into open accusations as Gil-galad completed his tale. "Of them I will not speak further, save to say that they are safe, and silent, and do not concern us further."

The questions of the King of Khazad-dum were not so easily brushed aside. "Leave it to the Elves to think themselves higher than the rest of us."

"Or more clever," Isildur icily offered. He attempted to catch his father's eyes, but Elendil kept his gaze squarely fixed upon a point somewhere in the middle of the floor, or perhaps underneath it, on the far side of Ea.

Galadriel used the soothing power of her calm words to try and smoothe over the ever increasing agitation of the Council members. "Celebrimbor's intentions were of the highest order. He truly wished to use the power of the Three rings to heal Middle-earth of all decay and evil."

"Good intentions -- weighed against all the blood that was shed because of them," Isildur grimly spat. "Elf justice is beyond my ability to fathom."

"Celebrimbor paid for his mistakes with his life, and those of all his finest craftsman. Is that not enough?" The question was rhetorical, and Elrond realized it before the words even left his mouth. He wasn't surprised in the slightest when the Dwarf King grumbled his reply.

"I, for one, think not."

It was only then that Elendil joined the conversation, unhurriedly raising his gaze from the floor, bearing the serene expression of a master diplomat. "Fair allies against the forces of Darkness, I may not have the sweet tongue of the Sindar, nor the scholarly insight of the Noldor, or the craftsmanship of the Dwarves. However, I know with every fiber of my being that none of these talents will aid us in what is to come. It is the stoutness of our hearts, and our armor, that will lead us to victory, and in that I believe each of us to be equal."

The distinctive booming rumble of dwarf laughter filled the air. "Well spoken, Man of Numenor," Durin encouraged. "Leave the Elven kin to their squabbling. Let's you and I speak of what is really to be done!"

"What needs to be done is clear," Elendil continued, rising from his chair. "We must rally our forces, storm the walls of Mordor, rip the One Ring from his very hand, then destroy him, once and for all!"

Oropher's suspicions shifted from the Noldor to the race of Men. "Then do what with the ring? Would you claim it for yourself, in the name of the Dunedain?"

The ever-wise Cirdan interjected for the first time in the discussion. "It must be cast back into the fires of Mount Doom, where it was forged. That is the only way it may be destroyed, and with it, Sauron's power."

Gil-galad stoutly pushed up from his chair joining with Elendil in rousing the allies into action. "Yes, that is the only way to assure our complete victory, and the freedom of Middle-earth."

"And what of your precious, perfect Elf rings? Will you then be free to use them however you choose?" Isildur taunted, much to Elendil's glaring disapproval.

Cirdan answered Isildur's haughty accusation. "Perhaps, or, more likely, they will be rendered powerless once the One is destroyed. In either case, they should not concern us, at the moment. Destroying the One is of the utmost urgency."

The hushed murmur of thoughtful mulling filled the air, then a moment of silence, as traditional allies and opponents tried to size up the others' decision before they, themselves agreed to this course of action. The awkward tension was suddenly broken by the clear voice of Thranduil, Prince of Greenwood.

"Three rings for the Elven-Kings under the sky, Seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone, Nine for mortal men doomed to die,  
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne, In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."

Durin harrumphed loudly, then conceded a mild murmur of approval at the elf's extemporaneous poetry.

Sensing an uneasy peace had finally been achieved, Elrond seized the moment and rose to his feet between Elendil and Gil-galad. "Are we united in this fight? For if not, we shall, all of us, fall. What say you all?" With butterflies fluttering inside him, Elrond waited anxiously as each of the leaders, one by one, pledged their support. Some offered their armies more openly than others, but in the end, there was not a single dissension.

The Last Alliance had survived -- for now.

Part 4:

So it was that the Last Alliance of Elves and Men was strengthened by the addition of the armies of Moria, Greenwood, and Lorien. After the promises of fealty were achieved, the Council dispersed, Durin, Oropher and Amdir making hasty exits back to their respective kingdoms to begin preparations for the assault on Mordor. Gil-galad and Elendil disappeared together for a time, apparently to discuss matters in private. Isildur blackly stalked off with his sons in tow, still grumbling about the untrustworthiness of elves.

For his part, Elrond was far too relieved with the overall success of the Council to worry about Isildur's tantrum -- for the moment.

The shadows grew longer, as afternoon turned to dusk, and dusk to nightfall before Gil-galad returned to Elrond's candlelit private chambers. The lateness of the hour and the darkness in the King's gaze equally troubled the Lord of Imladris. "Is everything right with Elendil?" he hesitantly inquired.

"Everything is well. The Alliance has been strengthened even further," Gil-galad promised. However, there was something in those storm-colored eyes which told a far different tale. But before Elrond had the opportunity to query further, Gil-galad captured his mouth in a desperate kiss and insistently directed him back in dance-like steps toward the bed.

Disrobing each other with frantically fumbling fingers, Elrond grew suspect of the ferocity of his lover's passion. It was certainly not out of character for the king, per se, but it somehow seemed vastly out of place with the events of the day. It was only once they were naked, outstretched together in the comfort and security of the elf-woven sheets that Elrond detected the unmistakable scent of another on his lover's flawless skin. He froze for the briefest of moments, Gil-galad's lengthy absence from his company now taking on a meaning far different than he had expected.

The uncharacteristic distance in Elrond's demeanor did not go unnoticed by he who knew the Half-Elf like none other. "Do not ask me to explain now, Nin-iaun," the King of the Noldor urgently whispered, brushing his lips against the delicate point of his lover's ear. "Claim me as your own, again."

The words, the timbre, what remained unsaid -- it tore at Elrond's very soul with the razor sharpness of an elven blade. Brushing back the dark hair from his king's face, Elrond forced a sly hint of a smile and tried to overcome his uncertainty and confusion. "You need not ask twice," he joked lamely, then set to work wiping the taint of another's musky presence from his lover's flesh.

* * *

Uneasily they lay in awkward stillness, the flickering candlelight illuminating the creases of concern upon each man's brow. Unable to withstand the unnatural silence for another moment, Elrond cleared his throat in preparation to speak, but found his mouth once again the prisoner of familiar lips.

"It is time for the truth," Gil-galad softly whispered, tenderly running fingertips to smooth the worry-raised furrows in Elrond's forehead. "Elendil was deeply troubled by my admission of elven guilt, but dared not show his displeasure in the Council for fear of causing a schism in the Alliance."

Elrond was visibly shocked. "You did not tell him the truth beforehand? I assumed by his reaction...."

"There was not time. Instead, my closest ally had to hear of our deceit from my mouth at the same time as the rest of the Council."

Exhaling loudly, Elrond nodded in comprehension. "He felt betrayed. I do not blame him."

Gil-galad melted his body against the sheets, gathering Elrond to him in a tight embrace. With a silent gulp, he drew his strength from the sweet sensation of his favorite form pressed against him, the scent of their passion hanging low in the air around them like a protective curtain. He buried his nose into the dark loving-messed hair and committed the scent and sensation to memory. "Nor could I," he finally murmured. "He understood our shame, our reasons for not admitting to our deceit, our grave errors." Relief crept into his tone. "He forgave it all, in the name of the Alliance. He knows we cannot allow the past to stand in the way of defeating Sauron, now."

Elrond shifted slightly in his arms. "Isildur will not be made to understand so easily."

Sighing to himself, Gil-galad gently tightened his embrace. "Perhaps not, but he is loyal to his father in all things, and will not question Elendil's wishes." The pain returned to his voice, whispered into the night like an arrow piercing his heart. "As I hope you will not mine."

Elrond wriggled out of the embrace, propping himself up on one elbow to search the other's face. "My Lord? When have I ever denied you my complete loyalty?"

"Never, Nin-iaun. I only pray you will not begin now." Cupping the worry-lined face in both hands, Gil-galad claimed the other's lips as his own, savoring the taste and texture he considered a slice of the Blessed Realm, itself. Lingering in the contact for a wingless moment, he finally released the lips, yet his hands kept tight rein on his beloved's features. "Man and Elf are too separated, segregated. Surely you see that yourself -- in the very way the troops take their meals, arrange their bedrolls among the trees, each kind unwilling to truly mingle with the other as equals. That cannot be allowed to continue in what is to come. There can be nothing between us, Nin-iaun. Nothing."

Elrond had no sage words to offer in response. He agreed wholeheartedly, but had no idea how such perfect integration might be accomplished. As he was now learn, however, the Kings of the Noldor and the Dunedain had come to an answer of their own.

"To seal our vow, to put the past lies behind us, Elendil and I have decided to hold to the bond between my kinsman, Fingolfin, and Hador Lorindol, of the Third House of the Elf Friends," Gil-galad softly explained, "as they lived, and died, fighting against the Great Darkness, Morgoth, he whom Sauron once served."

"Great was their devotion to each other, and their loyalty is the subject of sweet songs still sung in Imladris. But how do you propose we hold their example close to our hearts?"

Such innocence in that simple question, innocence Elrond seldom showed after thousands of years in Middle-earth. Gil-galad felt his heart twist like the acrobatic fall of golden autumn leaves on their way to the ground. Forcing a mockery of a smile to his lips, he twisted the fingers of one hand through the loose, dark, plait draped along the side of Elrond's neck. "I have an oath to which you must swear, Nin-iaun. On my life, and yours, you _must_ swear...."

* * *

"Do not believe I ask this of you lightly."

Incredulous almost to the point of anger, Elrond stalked another few paces across the cool stone floor of his bedroom. "I do not believe you ask this of me at all!"

"There is no other way. We must lead by example. There have been too many secrets between our peoples in the past. Either we share _everything_ , trust _completely_ , be as _one_ , or we shall be _nothing_! Only the truth can save us, now."

"The truth," Elrond spat, his eyes flashing angrily despite the muted candlelight. "The truth us that I do not care for Isildur, even as an ally. He is too arrogant, too brash...."

"Which is the very reason you must be as his very shadow, Nun-iaun." A bittersweet smile graced Gil-galad's face, and he suddenly looked every year of his true age. "How better for him to find the wisdom of your calming influence than in your arms? You have counseled _me_ thusly many times in the past," he teased lovingly.

Elrond opened his mouth to reply, but the turmoil in his lover's -- his King's -- eyes silenced his protest. Defeated even before the battle had truly begun, the Lord of Imladris slowly padded across the stoned floor and wrapped his arms tightly around Gil-galad's waist. "I will do as you ask, though I shall see only you in my dreams...." His voice faded to a whisper upon the gentle evening breeze, his eyes searching the other's for meaning far beyond his woefully inadequate words.

"And you in mine. I shall live for the day when we are free of the Darkness, and the scent of you, and you alone, will linger upon my sheets." Hesitating for the briefest passing of time to burn his beloved's image even deeper into his mind's eye, Gil-galad finally pulled their bodies together for a lingering, consecrating kiss. He slid his lips across the rounded jawline, stopping to caress the outer rim of a sensitive ear. "Come, we have many nights together to enjoy before we leave for battle. Let us enjoy each one to the fullest...."

Part 5:

The nucleus of the great host prepared itself within the safety of Rivendell's arms. Gil-galad, as well, readied for the uncertainties of coming battle by claiming every moment in Elrond's bed which the Valar, and decorum, would allow. Far too soon the arrangements were complete, the banners unfurled, and the armies of Gil-galad and Elendil marched forth across the Bruinen, to embrace their fate. Isildur's wife, unbeknownst to all her womb freshly ripened with her husband's seed, despite her advanced years, remained in Rivendell, under Galadriel's curiously watchful eye. They and only a handful of others watched from the high stone terrace of Imladris, singing stirring songs of victory to spur on the hearts of their champions.

As their voices faded into the distance, Elrond felt a part of his heart fade into grim darkness with them. He dared a brief glance to his left, where Isildur warily marched ahead of his sons. Apparently no more pleased with the arrangement than Elrond, the son of Elendil narrowed his eyes at the elf lord and returned his glance with a derisive snort. An uneasy truce having been forged -- for now -- Elrond bent his senses toward catching precious snatches of sight of his true master, his Lord, his heart, marching at the head of the leading company of men and elves.

The musical jangle of well-fitting elvish armor interrupted Elrond's single minded day dreams. Never breaking stride, he turned his head toward the strangely comforting sound and watched as Cirdan hustled through the advancing columns of troops to his side.

"I thought you would not mind my company as we traveled," the bearded elf cheerfully offered.

"Yours is the company I would _least_ mind," Elrond playfully volleyed. <<Save one,>> he forlornly added to himself.

They marched together in silence for many minutes in an airy elfven cadence, all the while Cirdan suspiciously studying Isildur's every move. "I do not trust that one," he finally whispered to Elrond. "Mind his temper, and his manner of action. Despite his royal blood, is the weakest link in our armor."

Cirdan's astute observations did nothing to ease Elrond's mind. There were times he wished he was deadly wrong, this being one of them. "I know," he whispered. "I know."

* * *

True to their word, Durin and Amdir each joined the ever-increasing legion in a timely fashion, threading their own host of troops seamlessly with the alliance as it passed south. However, ever the slave to his obsessive pride, Oropher refused to fall under Gil-galad's banner, instead keeping _his_ troops parallel, but apart and aloof. In the end, it proved to be his undoing, and that of his people.

During the unbearably long days to follow, Gil-galad and Elendil were inseparable, providing the most visible symbol of the unity of the enemies of the Darkness. Each night their banners stood side by side, as the great leaders shared a single large tent. If the troops knew the true depth behind the sleeping arrangements, none spoke of them in the open. In his own agony, Elrond was also uncertain of what was truth and what illusion. Was the battlefield bond between his King and the Dunedain's merely symbolic, or was there, indeed, a physical aspect to it beyond what had happened at Imladris? To his grave, Elrond would never fully know the truth.

Indeed, this uncertainty made the toil of daily routine all the more excruciating. Each stolen glance, each fleeting touch of a hand on his shoulder, made their nearly daily strategy updates an exercise in torture. The scarcely veiled longing he knew to be in own his eyes was mirrored in that of his King. Elendil played the role of the oblivious to perfection, but it was alarmingly evident to Elrond that Isildur maliciously reveled in the anguish he surely found in the elf lords' mutual lingering gaze.

It was a moonless night when Isildur first decided to hold Elrond to the oath each had sworn to their superiors. As the seconds in command they, too, were afforded the luxury of the smallest of tents, barely enough to hold their bedrolls and armor. Each had their own, staked side by side each night in mockery of unity. It took less than a few heartbeats for Isildur to poke his head into Elrond's private space, shoot him the evilest of learing glares, and then take what had theretofore only been shared with the Noldor King.

Elrond bore the contact with aloof detachment, silent in his shame and revulsion at being taken by this vulgar, petty man. The Dunedan's exaggerated, rutting grunts of carnal enjoyment could be plainly heard throughout the camp, and after hastily leaving Elrond still full of his stain, Isildur took great enjoyment in making his exit from the elf's tent as obvious as possible. Was it any wonder Elrond could not bear to meet Gil-galad's concerned gaze in the morning?

That was the first of several nights during their uneventful southward march when Isildur attempted to assert his power in this basest of ways. Whatever lofty meaning had been intended in the original oath had obviously fallen upon deaf ears as far as Isildur was concerned. He interpreted things in a typically human -- nay, animalistic -- fashion. Marking his scent, asserting his superiority, claiming victory over his allies in a base, primal way humans sometimes reserved for their enemies. Even the occasional nighttime liaison between two consenting soldiers who missed home, hearth, and happiness was far, far more lofty than what transpired between Isildur and his unenthusiastic partner. What Isildur did not know was that it was only the sweet memories of Gil-galad's touch and the solemnity of a sworn oath which kept Elrond from killing him in his sleep.

* * *

Along the Anduin they marched, unopposed. They crossed the Brown Lands without incident and reached the Dead Marshes, soon to earn their terrible name. Amdir somehow fell sway to Oropher's unfortunate influence, and allowed his forces to become separated from the rest of the host. Thus, at the Battle of Dagorland, the King of Lorien and half his Silvan force were slaughtered by Sauron's army. Too late the alliance was able to take the field and push the Dark Lord's minions south, back into the border of Mordor.

Despite Gil-galad and Elendil's united call for logical calm in this time of unbearable grief for fallen companions, Oropher would not heed, instead rallying his troops into a premature assault on Mordor. The outcome was predictable, with more than two thirds of the army of Greenwood falling alongside its king. Snatching a glimpse of victory from the terrible gnashing jaws of defeat, Elendil and Gil-galad continued Oropher's ill-advised advance, and finally managed to chase the enemy well into Mordor itself, all the way back to Barad-dur.

Fortified by the arrival of Anarion's army from Gondor, the alliance then began a protracted assault on the forces of Darkness, neither side giving sway until the day the Dark Lord, himself, emerged from his Black Tower....

* * *

The final battle was horrifying beyond the languages of Man or Elf to adequately capture. Even the most sorrowful songs sung for generations in Lorien or Rivendell were a mere shadow of the true pain suffered that day by the alliance. Leading the charge to the base of Mount Doom, itself, Gil-galad was singled out as the primary recipient of Sauron's wrath. So great was the fire of malevolence within the Dark Lord that the mighty elf King was incinerated where he stood, the glimmering spear Aeglos in hand to the end. Elendil, ever at his ally's side, charged at the terrible demon, but was swatted aside like the most insignificant of insects.

Elrond and Isildur, each in command of their own forces but never more than a shout from each other, watched the unfolding tableau in horror, as did Cirdan, who ever remained close to Elrond's side. While Elrond remained frozen in his unbearable grief and incredulous anger, Isildur dove to his father's side and wrapped a hand around the hilt of Narsil, Elendil's trusty sword. After a blocked attempt to smite the Dark Lord, he sliced the accursed Ring from the black hand with the shattered weapon, scattering the physical form of Sauron to the ends of the Middle-earth in a malodorous hurricane of shivering evil.

The Ring remained behind, glowing with the very fires of Mordor, itself, the brightest light upon the field of battle. Isildur found his eyes drawn to it, as was his mind and heart, forgetting in an instant the doleful sacrifices which had been made to achieve this victory. Mesmerized, he extracted the Ring from the fossil of a finger it had for so long encircled, and cradled the precious ornament in one hand.

Roused from his grief triggered paralysis by the whisper of his lover's disembodied voice in his mind, Elrond gritted back his tears and hurried to the Dunedan's side. "Isildur, hurry!" he urged, then led the still enthralled mortal up the fiery slopes of Mount Doom. Elrond hustled through the opening to the very heart of the volcano, gesturing for Isildur to promptly follow. "Cast it into the fire! Destroy it!" he urged, a wall of tears cascading inside his soul.

Isildur stared at the ring, caressing it with his eyes, affording it more true passion and tenderness than he had ever shown Elrond in his arms. It was his, _his_ , the One Ring to rule them all. For so long, the Elves had thought themselves the cleverest of all, the most powerful -- no longer. Now it was Man's turn to demand respect. "No," he slowly spat, the leering sneer on his face now all too familiar to the Lord of Rivendell.

"Isildur!!!!" Elrond screamed, trying in vain to connect with whatever rational part remained in the mortal's ring-fogged brain. As he watched Isildur turn and swagger away, he contemplated springing upon the mortal's back and tossing him into the heart of Mount Doom, ring still in hand. The wall of tears erupted from behind his eyes, clouding his vision as he found he could not override the remembered voice in his head. For not only had he sworn to his beloved, on their very lives, and their love, that he would be as one with the haughty human, but that he would protect Isildur with his very life and allow no harm to come to him, or his descendents, if the battle should fail.

Such was the irony of Gil-galad's instruction, that in trying to assure the success of the alliance's goal, he now prevented Elrond from the one course of action which _could_ bring success.

Collapsing to his knees, Elrond punched a clenched first into the ash blackened rock of the cliff floor, cursing the weakness of his own heart.

* * *

Thus it came to be that Isildur claimed the One Ring as a hard-won heirloom of the Kings of the Unified Kingdom, and, less than two years later, sealed his fate, and that of his three eldest sons, at the Gladden Fields. The Ring betrayed him, as he proudly rode north to reclaim the throne of Arnor, and fell into the murk of myth. Isildur's blindness and pride left his wife a widow, and the infant son he had never seen the fatherless heir of the Dunedain in the North.

Ever true to his oath, Elrond gave sanctuary to the widow and to the blameless child who had been born in his very home, despite the increasing hardness of his heart toward the line of Man.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> 1) On Gil-galad: According to Foster (1978), he was born in the First Age and was the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. During the Second Age he fought off Sauron with the help of Elrond, his close companion and herald, and the men of Numenor. After Numenor's fall, Sauron again arose and threatened Middle-earth, and Gil-galad joined with Elendil, the leader of the Dunadain, to create the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Both were killed in Mordor during the final assault, when Elendil's sword Narsil was broken and Gil-galad was killed by the extreme heat of Sauron. The story of how Isildur, Elendil's son, used the broken sword to cleave the Ring of Power from Sauron's hand, and how Elrond tried to get him to destroy it by throwing it into Mount Doom, was told in the film (FOTR) as well as the book. For an extremely detailed study of Gil-galad as a character, see Martinez (August 4, 2000). For the most detailed study of the Last Alliance itself, see Martinez (May 19, 2001; May 25, 2001; June 1, 2001)
> 
> 2) On Vilya: From Tyler (1976:507), "The Ring of the Firmament, mightiest of the Three Rings of the Elven-kings made by Celebrimbor the Smith during the middle years of the Second Age. It was given by Celebrimbor to Gil-galad, High King of Lindon, and was later passed on by Gil-galad to Elrond Half-elven shortly before the final battle of the Last Alliance. Elrond bore it throughout the Third Age and carried it over Sea when he departed from Middle-earth in 3021. it was a ring of gold, and bore a large sapphire." For a fascinating study of the Elven rings, and speculation on Elrond's use of Vilya in the Third Age, see Martinez (July 14, 2000)
> 
> 3) On the guilt of the Elves(in terms of their misleading of the men of Numenor and others concerning the Rings), see a detailed analysis by Martinez (January 19, 2001). I rely heavily on his documents in this series.
> 
> 4) On Hador and Filgolfin: Foster (1978: 232) explains that Hador "served Fingolfin, who loved him and gave him the lordship of Dor-lomin, where Hador gathered the Third House and became the greatest chieftain of the Edain. During [the battle of] Dagor Bragollach, Hador commanded the rearguard of Fingolfin and was slain in the defense of Eithel Sirion."
> 
> 5) Note that some of Elven politics (and Dwarvish, for that matter) appear in the Council scene. Rather than make the notes section longer than the story, suffice it to say that the Noldor and Sindar aren't always best buds .
> 
> 6) There is no evidence Gil-galad ever married. Elrond was his constant companion and confidant for well over 1000 years, until Gil-galad sent Elrond to try and save Celebrimbor in Eregion. Elrond was at his side in Mordor until the end. A century after Gil-galad's death, Elrond married Celebrian, the only child of Galadriel and Celeborn. Anyone I think it was an arranged marriage? 
> 
> 7) Just to remind people of two important differences in the Middle-Earth of The Last Alliance as opposed to the War of the Ring: Amdir was King of Lorien, and Celeborn and Galadriel were his frequent guests, nothing more; Mirkwood was still unfouled, and was known as Greenwood the Great.
> 
> 8) It seems to me that Legolas' father, Thranduil (the Elf King of "The Hobbit") and his grandfather, Oropher, were inherently supreme pricks, by Elvish standards. The Golden Boy must be adopted .
> 
> 9) nin-iaun = my sanctuary (Sindarin)
> 
> 10) The movie made a big gaff in the date of Isildur's "account." It is dated 3434, which is the year the company set out from Rivendell. The final battle in Mordor was in 3441. I left it vague here as to the exact dates and how long everything took so I would not have to decide between the two canons.
> 
> 11) As for the name of this series, it's important to know that one translation of Gil-galad's name is "radiant starlight."


End file.
